Red
by DopplerGirl
Summary: "Her hair was red. Red like blood. Red like the devil." Because Catherine Goode would always be a demon plaguing Zach's mind, no matter of how much time may pass. And there are somethings in life you just can't fix. One-shot, post-fic.


Seven devils all around you  
Seven devils in your house  
See I was dead when I woke up this morning  
I'll be dead before the day is done  
- Florence and the Machine

* * *

You came home to see your 5 year old son with blood covering his hands.

"Oh sweetie," you said, as you kneel and clutch him to you, and you can feel him shaking. Instantly you know what happened. "Where is he?" You ask as you pull away to stare into his frightened eyes.

Your little boy, Kevin, looked up at you, a streak of red on his smooth, pale cheek. "He's in the kitchen," he said, in a clear, childlike voice "Mommy, I tried to make her stop sleeping. She just kept making the bad noise and there was a lot of red stuff and Daddy was real sad, so I just hold her hand like you told me until the bad noises stopped."

"Shhhh, Chicken," You said, using a favored nickname to keep him calm as you smoothed his dark hair, "You did great. Lets get you cleaned and straight to bed, and you can have ice cream for breakfast, okay?

He nods obediently, but you know that not even promises of his favorite food can cheer him up now. You take him to the bathroom and wipe the dried blood of his cheek, his hands, his arms arms, knowing not one drop of it belonging to him, trying to ignore the heartbroken sobs you can both hear coming from the kitchen. Unlike most children, he didn't cry or whine; he just sat there, dark, intelligent eyes staring back at you. Eyes that have seen too much, too much, too much.

"Daddy did a bad thing," he said, his voice quivering, "He said I had to leave. He threw the plate and it went boom."

Your hands clench involuntarily. You knew he would never, could never lay a hand on their boy, not even during one of his... episodes. But still.

You tell him to go upstairs, tell him that Mommy will be right there after she fixed Daddy. He sniffled, eyes bright with unshed tears, and shuffled up the stairs, his spider-man pajamas making him look even smaller than usual. Your gaze trails after him, worried, protective. You want to follow him, watch him all night, make sure no harm ever comes to him. But someone else needed you more.

You walk down the hallway towards the kitchen quiet as a mouse, but you know he can hear you approaching. Because the crying halted, reduced to sniffling for the time being, and your just completely exasperated. How many times was this going to happen. Then you enter the kitchen.

You see her body before you see him.

Her arms were covered with scars, cuts made over and over and over. Blood pooled on the tiled floor around her. Both legs were facing unnatural angles, and there was a giant cook's knife sticking out of her stomach. Her skin looked tight and tinged purple- as if death had already began to deteriorate her. Her expression was one of permanent agony, blue eyes with no light in them glaring up at you.

"Zach," you whisper, appalled. He'd lost it before, but this...

He was sitting on the kitchen counter, knees pulled to his stomach arms holding his legs together, shattered glass on decorating the floor around him. His hands were covered in dried blood, none of which was his own. He was rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. His eyes darted around the room, as if he couldn't make sense of anything he saw. His face looked like he was in a dream-like state, tears streaming relentlessly down his cheeks.

"Did you know the devil was in our house today?" He asked, his eyes focusing on you for a a moment, before continuing their aimless wander.

"Zach," You say his name again louder, and take a step towards him, trying to bring him back to you. You say a silent prayer of thanks that you haven't taken off your shoes yet as the glass crunches beneath your boots.

"It's true. The devil knocked on our door, saying she wanted to invite us to a neighborhood party. Ha! I knew she was just in disguise, see. So I killed her."

A second step, you repeat his name.

"And she begged," He said, raking his hand across his cheek, drawing blood, "She _begged _for me to let her live. Said she wasn't the devil. But I knew the truth. The world had turned red. Everything is red when the devil is around; deep, dark red. Blood red. Red is evil. So I made it slow and painful, cutting her wrist first, then breaking her legs when she tried to run. And then I stabbed her."

You flinched, because anyone who went to spy school could tell you that a stomach wound is among the cruelest ways to kill someone, but you still take another step towards him.

"Zach."

His eyes rest on you once more, eyes lost and terrified, like that scared little boy you'd just sent upstairs. "Her hair was red. Red like blood. Red like the devil."

You look back at the mangled remains of the girl on the floor, and you finally come to realize her crime. The color of her blood matted hair was a deep shade of red, almost maroon. Auburn.

The exact shade Catherine Goode's hair had been.

A sinister look takes over his eyes, and you wonder if he even recognizes you anymore, "There was an angel too. A young one. As the devil died, he held her hand until she stopped screaming. He radiated light and goodness, but he seemed so frightened, so frightened. Frightened of _me._"

A shaky breath escaped him, then two, before he could speak again. "The devil always said I'd take her place. Always said I'd be capable of terrible things. I guess she's right. With her gone, there has to be a new devil."

And suddenly there's a glint of silver and white hot pain rushes through you. You look down to see a knife protruding out of your stomach, the exact same way it was to the woman on the floor, the floor, the floor is rushing up to meet you as you collapse, feeling your head crack against the floor. Your hair dampens with blood as tiny shards of glass digs into your skin, your hands, your neck.

You try to cry out, but its only a chocked gurgling sounds escapes your mouth as blood floods your windpipe. He's standing up no, looking down at you, a crazed look clouding his once intelligent eyes.

"I don't want to be the devil Cammie, but someone has to do it."

And suddenly, his face dawned with horror, agony. He looks down at his hands stained with blood, your blood and hers, with revulsion. His eyes meet yours once more, tears filling them, and he throws his head back in a heartbroken lament. Your Zach, the one you fell in love with, the one with more strength than anyone you'd ever met, had finally come back to you. Slightly too late, too late, too late.

He drops to your side, and grasps at your hand. He shaking and sobbing and apologizing, saying it was his fault saying that he loved you. You cough up blood, and the pain in your stomach is overwhelming: you know you won't last much longer.

You squeeze his hand and mouth _I love you,_ knowing you couldn't do much more. The edges of your vision turn fuzzy. You watch him nod, and press your blood soaked knuckles to his tear soaked mouth and kisses it. You see resolve flash in his eyes, and before you can stop him with a weak noise of protest, he's picking up yet another knife and ending the life of a third person in one night. Himself.

And life seeps out of both of you, slowly, painfully, as you hold hands and cling to each other as long as you could. The floor beneath you is soaked with blood, but neither of you dares to turn away from the other's eyes. You think of Kevin and how he's going to grow up an orphan now. You think of Catherine Goode and the woman on the floor and red hair. Of your family and friends, and how they never understood why you stayed married to a psychopath. Of every single memory of your father. Of Zach. Of how you've never been able to let him go, even though it was probably best for everyone. Of how much you'll always love him.

And his face is the last thing you see as the world turns red, red, red as you succumb to an endless slumber.

* * *

A little boy stands in the kitchen staring at three dead bodies, two in particular. Tears stream down his eyes taken in the empty faces of his parents. He falls to his knees on the shattered-glass covered floor, shoulders wracking with endless sobs, as he cries his heart-out on as he holds the bloodstained hands of his dead mom and dad with no one to comfort him. Not anymore.

He never touched ice-cream ever again.

* * *

**And the award for Morbid Story of the Year goes to... yeah, I get it, it could be happier. But it isn't, sorry. Anyway, there's like no explanation for this story. I've always felt like someone would go nuts after years of dealing with all this spy crap. Personally I liked the writing style. And I got no idea where the whole repeating words thing came from, but I think its cool and matches the whole crazy theme. And the little change of POV at the end...okay, I'll admit, that one was weird. Also, I know I'm not the type to do song prompts, but Seven Devils was so perfect, I couldn't resist.**

**~Sarah**


End file.
